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Bahar Anooshahr

Bahar Anooshahr

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Happy Noruz

20 Friday Mar 2015

Posted by Bahar Anooshahr in Family, Holidays, Publication

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Culture, Disney, Haft Seen, Marco Polo Arts Magazine, Noruz, Nowruz, Persian New Year, Vernal Equinox, ZOROASTRIAN

Originally published in Marco Polo Arts Mag

Noruz Celebrations*

I remember mom wanting everything perfect on that day. Tradition says: whatever state you are in at the moment of vernal equinox, you’ll stay in for a full year. I hoped the Iraqis wouldn’t bomb us at that moment.

I remember spring-cleaning.

I remember mother’s enthusiasm as she’d start growing grassy green wheat or coiling vert lentil sprouts ten days before Noruz (new day), the Persian New Year, that first day of spring.

I remember asking mom to call me when she was ready to bake her chickpea cookies, delicate florets with a little barrette of pistachio in their center. They’d quietly crumble in your mouth. You could eat four or five at a time.

I remember cutting the pistachios into slivers, promising mom not to hurt myself.

I remember the aroma of butter, cardamom, rosewater and honey rising in an embrace with mother’s love to fill the kitchen like Rumi’s poetry. When you walked out of the kitchen, the waft of sweets gave way to the perfume of hyacinths.
I remember the Haft-Seen, a spread of seven items that start with “s,” signifying Zoroastrian divinities.Seeb (apple) symbolized beauty; sir (garlic), health; sabzee (sprouts), birth; sumac, sunrise; serkeh(vinegar), age or patience; samanoo (wheat germ pudding), affluence; senjed (oleaster tree fruit), love. Coins, gold fish, colored eggs, a mirror, the Quran plus Hafez poems adorned the table too.

I remember our yard a mélange of scented colors: the showering amethyst of wisterias, the heaven-pointing lilacs, roses bursting pink and red, pansies playful in orange, yellow, or maroon, the pool sparkling blue.

I remember wearing at least one new article of clothing. Something I still do on Noruz here in the States.

I remember the house so clean it felt more spacious.

I remember my brothers and I watching television while waiting for the celebrations. They always played Robin Hood, a censured version after the revolution of course, but still it was Disney.

I remember the commotion minutes before the equinox.

At last, I remember we’d gather around the Haft-Seen as the New Year Prayer commenced. Oh Lord, transformer of hearts and eyes, alterer of day and night, bestow upon us a most formidable fate. Tic, tac, tic, tac, boom. Voice of music, music of voices burst amidst hugs and kisses.

I remember dad taking out envelopes from inside the Quran with our names on them. He always gave us brand new, crisp bills for eidee (present). To me, his eldest, he gave the most.

I remember looking forward to family visits. They meant more sweets, more eidee.

I remember grandfather greeting us in his pinstriped suit, kissing our foreheads before handing out money from his prayer book. It always smelled of jasmines because he kept jasmines in his book.

I remember the festivities ending on day thirteen. We’d leave the house to throw the sabzee, ill from gathering our bad faith, into running water while making a wish. We made a picnic of it and wished the war away.

*An homage to Joe Brainard

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The curse of the evil eye protector

17 Friday Oct 2014

Posted by Bahar Anooshahr in Children, dating A dad, Family

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Culture, datingAdad, envy, evil eye

imagesI had bought an evil eye symbol for my partner. When the kids saw it, they asked me to explain what it was.

“It’s a protective symbol. It takes away other people’s jealousy and envy of you.“ After we went through the meaning of envy, one of them said:

“I wish I had one.”

As a newcomer, I was still trying to establish myself.  Oh who am I kidding.  I’m still establishing.  So, I promised to buy each of them something with an evil eye protection symbol: a necklace for the older child and a bracelet for the younger.

A few nights later, I stopped by his place for their bedtime routine.  Before we started our book, his then eight-year-old said: “Bahar, I lost my necklace.”

She put me on a spot, but no big deal.  I was the grown up here, the one with the evil eye culture.  She’s only eight. How hard could it be? I proceeded with my mom’s positive approach. Instead of “aw, I’m sorry” I said, “That’s good. It means you were protected from something.”

Her eyes welled with tears.

What the heck?  “What’s the matter honey?”

“Now what’s going to protect me?”

Oh, shit. 

Catching the Evil Eye

20 Friday Dec 2013

Posted by Bahar Anooshahr in Family, Humor

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Culture, evil eye, family, humor, Iran, jinx

imgresMom is here.  Throughout our conversations I am beginning to see the origins of my beliefs, including superstitions.  For instance, I believe in the evil eye and jinxing.  When S moved to his new apartment I bought him a rather large evil eye ornament whose role is to catch the bad wishes or envy of others towards him.

In Iran, my family members go above and beyond a glass ornament.  They are so scared of other people’s evil eye that they flat out lie to protect themselves.  My relatives don’t even trust their own intentions.  I remember catching a cold after a party.  My aunt was convinced she had jinxed me because she complimented me on my dress.

Mom grew up the same way.  Her grandmother had a routine.  If someone she loved got sick after a party, she would hold an egg in her hand above the sick person’s head with a bowl under the egg.  Then she’d call out the names of every attendee and for each name she’d give the egg a squeeze.  Whoever’s name the egg broke on was the culprit, the man or woman with the evil eye.  She’d say a prayer to the broken egg and discard it.

Her saga continues with her grand daughters.  Here are two fresh stories from the motherland.

My dad is a chemical engineer and still does some consulting.  He is currently working with a company in Iran and travels for work.  During one of his trips mom told him: “If people ask your age, you don’t need to be so honest.  Shave off a few years.”

“What?” I asked.

“What do you mean what?” mom answered.   “They’ll put a curse on him.  These young guys think 50 is old.”

It gets better.  Apparently my family members are so important that they are at risk of being jinxed even by their treating physicians.  Not too long ago auntie Jila brought granny to the doctor’s office for a routine exam.  When the physician assistant asked my grandmother’s age, Jila quickly announced 75 (instead of 85).

“MOM! That’s her doctor!  He needs accurate information to treat the patient.  You can’t lie to the doctor.”

“What difference does it make how old she is?  It’s not like she lied about medications.  Besides, I sometimes tell granny not to wear too much jewelry when she’s going to parties.  Most 85-year-old people are sick and dead.  You can’t prance around looking beautiful.”

As we talked and laughed about it all with mom, I realized these beliefs may sound ridiculous, yet they are precisely what connect us to our culture and make us who we are.

Can “A Separation” bring Unity?

27 Monday Feb 2012

Posted by Bahar Anooshahr in Art, General, Iran, Movies

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

A Separation, Academy Awards, art, Best Foreign Film, Culture, Farhadi, Iran, Oscar, peace, terrorism, Unity

As some of you know I am not a TV watcher, so I only found out the good news about A Separation winning the Oscar for best foreign film, through the congratulatory texts and emails sent by friends.  Soon, Facebook was flooded with comments and photos.   What’s the big deal?  I thought.  He’s had better movies.  When I finally sat down and watched his acceptance speech, I couldn’t hold back my tears.  Not because of the movie.  But because through that event the world could see something other than a darkly portrayed Iran.

That’s what all your Iranian Facebook friends, who seem to inundate the pages with clips, are trying to do.  It’s to show you, in Dr. Naderi’s words:  “Iran’s name on display for the right reasons. “  To say, there’s more to us than a grumpy government. We are so weary of hearing only talks of nuclear power and terrorism.  And would love nothing more but to show you a bit of our culture and heritage.  That way you can have a more complete picture.

In case you missed Farhadi’s acceptance speech, in his charming accent, he said: people of Iran are happy not because of a movie or award but because “At the time when talk of war, intimidation and aggression is exchanged between politicians, the name of their country is spoken here through her glorious culture, rich and ancient, that’s been hidden under the heavy dust of politics.”  He dedicates the award to “the people who respect all cultures and civilizations and despise hostility and resentment.”  The last part caused that emotional stir in me.

I know the media paints only pictures of hatred, but anytime I’ve been to Iran, I’ve seen nothing but friendly people, fascinated by the world outside of their country.  Intelligent folks who have a strong sense of music, literature, arts and sciences (even politics) and are always ready to entertain a great conversation.

Through art, we look at each other as humans irrespective of the relationship between our governments, or even the behavior of those governments.  We share our daily life challenges with others and open channels for communication.   I once heard Elif Shafak, a Turkish writer say this: An Israeli reader will read the work of a Palestinian writer and vice versa even if they may not speak to each other face to face.

Some skeptics may see the movie’s recognition as a political move.  You mean using art to stop conflicts?  What could be better?  Let’s do more.

Certainly the reaction of Iran’s government to Farhadi’s success remains to be seen.  You just never know.

Before I end this entry, may I recommend one of my favorite movies by Farhadi: “About Elly.”  When you come across movies or any other piece of art made in Iran, keep in mind that filmmakers, writers, painters, and photographers have very few topics to work with.  Their works are subject to scrutiny and censorship by the government.  Look at their works through that lens and you’ll appreciate how artfully they use the subtlest nuances to create wonderful pieces.

Congratulations to Mr. Farhadi and all artists who make a difference in the world through their creativity and creations.

Artful Persian Politeness

11 Sunday Dec 2011

Posted by Bahar Anooshahr in Iran, Travel

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

Culture, Persian, politeness, Taarof, travel

Originally Published in Pink Pangea

The other day mom took me to a salon for eyebrow shaping and facial threading. This will be my second visit to my birth country since I left 22 years ago. In Iran it is customary to do threading for facial hair. In the past I have had my legs done that way too but that was in middle school, ages ago. They must use wax by now.

To walk in to a public place, well pseudo public since no men are allowed, where women could remove their scarves and be themselves was refreshing. I became all eyes and ears to absorb the interactions of these talkative, beautiful Middle Eastern women.

To my surprise we walked in without an appointment and still were taken care of quite quickly. Once the owner saw mom, she walked towards her and kissed her on both cheeks, offering an upbeat flirtatious attitude. Mom introduced us, then nodded and smiled at one of the women in a short white coat and pointed me to her station. She was the esthetician who would shape my eyebrows.

I said hello and sat in her chair. She had a familiar feel to her. A woman in her early fifties she reminded me of an older nanny–the type who could calm you down when you were scared. She looked at me and said: “I pray that my hands bring you good luck sweetheart. Now make a wish, say a prayer and let’s begin.” That’s the charm of this country. So taken by her act I actually started making wishes.

In another station a woman was having hair extensions done. I watched four women working on her simultaneously. It was stories, laughs, and work all at the same time until I heard my lady say: “Ok honey. All done. Your face looks so radiant.”

“Thank you. How much do I owe you?”

“Ghaabel nadareh.” She responded meaning, “it is worthless” or “don’t worry about it.” I know it’s a dance of words. I know I have to keep asking until she finally verbalizes the price.

Iran is the land of artful politeness. I am not saying people are always polite but there are some underlying rules and formality for conversation and social exchange.

Used to the ease of the American style, I was content with being called by my first name but they insisted on calling me Dr. or Ms. Doctor.

Most of the people who are older expect to be called by their last name preceded by Mr., Mrs., or Dr., unless they tell you otherwise. When a group reaches a door and this can be the elevator door, they all stand around out of respect pleading with each other each asking the other to please go ahead until the most senior person goes first followed by the next oldest, etc. Women first, then men.

In this country of haggling, when you go to pay anyone whether in a cab, a store or a restaurant the first thing they tell you is: Ghaabel nadareh. “Don’t worry about it.” Ladies please do worry about paying your bill even if you hear this phrase. Say thank you and continue to ask for the price. Once you have a number to work with then you can start haggling.

In a gathering at someone’s house when new guests arrive or people are getting ready to leave everybody stands up in respect. Similar to the Italians they keep offering you food, filling up your plate even after you say you are full.

Persian culture is a culture of community. Two girlfriends may lock arms. Two men may kiss each other’s cheeks in greeting or dance with one another. People bump into you without saying sorry. I would watch out for men who might use that as an excuse though.

Let me mention an important issue here my dear ladies: the Iranian government has strict rules about men and women interacting with one another in public places. When I visited one of the hospitals here and wanted to hold a patient’s hand, a colleague told me: “Do not touch anyone who is not of your gender.”

A culture of closeness also means that family encompasses more than mom, dad and children. It includes grandparents, aunts, and uncles. They embrace you with open arms, blanket you with their love but then want to be integrated in your life. So they ask about your personal life, income, love affairs, debts, etc, and offer unsolicited advice regardless of their expertise. I am an oral surgeon and on several occasions I have received medical advice from relatives who have no medical background. It’s out of love, I realize, and with the best of intentions. When a loved one suffers each family member wants to offer his or her experience to relieve the pain.

Now I am in no way suggesting that you share your personal information with others but don’t be surprised at the questions.

Of course the rules of politeness are much more lenient for those who come from other countries. Iranians adore foreigners. They find white skin, blond hair and blue eyes exotic. So ladies with fair skin you will probably get a lot of attention, lots of stares, and maybe even whistles and remarks. Furthermore, just for being from another country, we all get a lot of questions to satisfy the people’s curiosity about life out there.

One place where all the politeness goes away is in traffic, but that’s for another day. Until then Happy Travels.

The Hierarchy of Tea

03 Saturday Dec 2011

Posted by Bahar Anooshahr in Food, General, Iran

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

beverage, Culture, Iran, Tea

Originally Published in Tea A Magazine

Having been raised in Iran I am no stranger to tea, I grew up on it.  But perhaps its familiarity blinded me to the enchanting and elegant qualities it possesses.  For me tea had always carried an aura of hierarchy which at times felt oppressive.  Iran has a patriarchal culture.  Add to it the Islamic revolution whose goal was to subjugate women in the name of religion.  Soon in my rebellious eyes life became a constant battle for justice.  Seeing the society with this lens made following rules about serving a beverage; its perfect color, in the perfect serving order, nonsensical.  Besides didn’t women suffer enough without yet another expectation of servitude placed on them?  It infuriated me to have to carry a tray of teacups or to watch any woman do the same.  The act of bowing down to offer tea felt as denigration.  Let them get their own tea.   Why should any woman accept this obvious insolent treatment?  Stand up for your rights ladies, put the trays of teacups down and declare equality.  I would gladly volunteer to lead the fight.  Persian women unite for justice!

One of my dominant memories that I chafed under, was the obligation of serving tea to a room full of guests. In Iran the task of serving tea during social gatherings falls on girls in their teens and twenties.   As guests arrive we bring them tea, plus with each new arrival we inquire if anyone else would like more.  When it comes to Iranians, who have an unspoken rule about being fashionably late, one can stay busy right up to meal time.  Further, in Iran we almost always drink loose leaf black tea.  Teabags are an insult.  Finding the right color becomes yet another challenge.  Unless otherwise requested by a guest, one strives for the perfect deep amber by having just the right ratio of tea, water, and timing.  Proper etiquette requires an order to the presentation as well:  women take precedence and older individuals are served first.  I used to review the order in my head:  grandmother, aunts, mom, grandfather, uncles and father, followed by the younger generation.  Scanning the room ahead of time saved the confusion of searching for the next person.   We repeat the whole ritual again after each meal.  At the time I found so many rules about a simple beverage banal and incessant.

The true test of a young woman’s skills came about during a visit from a potential suitor with his family.  What a nerve wracking moment to have to serve the perfect cup of tea to one’s possible husband and in-laws.  It feels as if the whole future rests on this very moment.  Can I carry the tray without showing the maelstrom of emotions churning within me?  I distinctly remember how a possible potential father-in-law’s order of a second serving in a specific color carried a bitter sense of hierarchy and power play for me.

Many years have passed since those days, and recently something has begun to change in me.  A shift took place that was quite unexpected.  I began, even against my high-minded convictions, to appreciate this ritual.  It required a different perspective to arrive at such a conclusion.   Living in the U.S. for twenty years has afforded me a new lens.  One, perhaps not as darkly tinted with bias, allowing me to see the symbolism, and the beauty of tea as a cultural ceremony.  A practice that teaches us in ways words cannot.   With new eyes I began to see how tea is more about sharing and bonding.  An experience I find myself nostalgic for now that I live in a kind of chosen exile.

And that nostalgia activated other memories that opened me to the beauty of tea.  I was reminded of the other ways tea features in the lives of Persians.  Tea is served not just at formal occasions, but also in more casual, intimate gatherings of friends or family. We exchange ideas, relate personal stories, tell secrets, share laughter and tears all over a cup of tea.  We welcome company to our homes with tea, even change the serving ware and our demeanor all based on the occasion. My beautiful aunt’s radiant face comes to mind as she would glide from guest to guest during all-women religious ceremonies to offer tea with a glow, a smile that communicated her willingness and love.  Not an iota of resentment present in her demeanor.  This delightful beverage is about communion and connection, not a political war.  With the ego set aside, I now see the bowing as an act of respect not derision, and the ritual as a graceful dance really, an art.  I relish in the fact that no matter where or what age Iranians are they have an unspoken understanding about when it is time for tea.  Nowadays, far from our families, especially when in company of single friends, I would gladly unburden them.  Of course they can pour and carry tea but I am here now.  And I can add a feminine touch to the ritual.  Perhaps by doing so bring back a remembrance of the country, our families with their preferences, our gatherings, our past.

My new appreciation for the beverage and attendant rituals also paved the way for more playful memories.  My grandmother liked her tea very dark, in a large glass.  A preference so passionate and deeply worn, she would always don a look of scorn when discussing light colored tea.  And then the inevitable comparison to…um…”horse urine.”  The language was a bit more colorful in Farsi.  I chuckle when I remember this.

Only with time and distance did I begin to realize that the essence of a nation is born from her traditions. Iran’s ceremonies weave the colorful tapestry of a rich culture which has traversed over centuries; one I take pride to be a part of.  The very custom that once goaded me now soothes me through the gift of a keen appreciation for respect and social grace.  As for the beverage itself it has become an integral part of my everyday life.  Each sip is a thread connecting me to the sweet memories of my past, while comforting me in the midst of challenging days.

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